Eternal Penance: The 41st Hunger Games
by bobothebear
Summary: "Twenty-three lives were never going to be enough. Yesterday's mistakes will follow us to the grave and beyond, not meant to be forgiven or forgotten. These Games we play are our repayment. This is their promised future. This is yesterday's timeless fault. This is our eternal penance." Written alongside The Lunar Lioness and Aspect of One.
1. Midst of Chaos

_"In the midst of chaos lies opportunity."_

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><p><strong>Day Nine, The Fortieth Hunger Games<strong>

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><p><strong>Lorayn Alden, District Two Female<strong>

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><p>How long is he going to make me wait? For how long will he deny me the pleasure of either his death or my own? Stalling will do him no good now. Payton and I have to meet soon; later is non-existent. We are the finale. The curtain call for the 40th Hunger Games. Every show must end. Every act comes to a close.<p>

Even this one.

In the big top where the acrobats once flew and the animal tamers guided their pets through brightly colored hoops, I stand on the blood-stained ground. It's like a timeline for the Games; at the door, you have the pool that was once the boy from Nine's. At least before my blade was embedded into his throat. Closer in, next to the ring which marks the center circle, you see the drops of Meredith's crimson. That was when I caught her trying to escape with our supplies on the first night. Lucky for me, paranoia is an excellent way to ignore sleep. The first cut left a trail that went all way to just outside the ring before she stopped moving and started dying.

Scattered all around the circle is my own blood. Some of which is because I got hit, others bits are there because letting it stung, letting it burn and cling to my skin helped me deal with it. Deal with what I'd done. Seeing the marks on my arms and legs proved it, that I had killed. I killed a boy and a girl. I killed people who had families and friends. I killed people.

In return for their death, they gave me scars. Scars which only I can feel.

I need them to know they are there. I need the Districts, the Captiol, the tributes to know. To know I am now scarred because of what I have done. Their blood, what little remains of it, will forever mark my hands.

What little of my life I have left I will spend in pain. My punishment will be short but sweet. No one else will punish me, they would said I did what I had to in order to survive. Therefore, I shall be my own judge, I shall decide what course of action needs to be taken.

The options are limited as there is only one.

A life sentence of internal torment is what awaits me in my future. I look forward to it with an ironic smile.

Until then, I'm forced to feel the pain of living. Every part of my being aches. My legs because all of the walking and the running and the standing. My arms because every time I think I can let go of my blades, a faraway stone is kicked and the ripple of its noise won't let my grip slip. My mind because if my statistics come in and say I've slept more than two hours in a row during the entire Games, I will be wholeheartedly surprised since I've just been told a lie by the Gamemakers. My heart aches most of all. What's left of it aches.

With his last breath, the boy from Nine cracked my heart from deep inside where you couldn't see it.

With those bright green eyes of hers, Meredith devastated me. She looked not at me but into me, straight into my chest where her gaze caused the cracks to appear of the surface of my heart. A little jolt was the only thing it needed to fall, to fall and leave me for the rest of my life collecting the pieces of my splintered soul.

The little jolt came in the form of the girl from Three. She was small, thirteen. Young, free, immature, the things she should have been. I had seen her with her allies, a chirpy bunch of… of children. Nevertheless, she isn't. None of them are. Not anymore.

The Games had changed her. The others died before the true effect kicked in, but she lived long enough to feel her joy seep from each cut, each wound. A child dragged up the queue to face death way before her time. Death is accepting of everything and anything. It doesn't care. It doesn't care if it's tomorrow or the day after that or a week or ten years from now. It will take you when you arrive at its door.

It knows you're not meant to be there now. But it doesn't care.

What makes it worse was I was the one doing the dragging. I took her to death's door and when it gazed down at me and smiled, my heart fell. It hit the ground and it shattered.

Thousands of pieces that will forever be lost in all corners of this arena.

In my sorry state, I've walked over in a haze to the bottom row of the bleachers that line around the circus ten. I lower myself down onto it and lean back, keeping my eyes on the entrances.

Please come soon Payton, I need it to be over. The Games or my life. Something needs to end.

Payton was always the favorite. The trainers thought he was the most gifted of our year. The Capitol was in love with his and Grant's story. Back-to-back Career victors from District Two who just happened to be brothers. Those oblivious fools couldn't have it written a better tale if they tried.

The Academy chose me to accommodate to their fairytale ending. No self-respecting trainer could believe I of all trainees could win. Not then, not now. I'm here to fulfill Payton's destiny. I'm his last step to victory, freedom, fame. And I will make it the longest step of his life. Because in reality, that's all I can do now. I'm no Victor.

I would have to live with not only my scars but the ones I caused. The ones I put on Grant.

I can't win. I could never win. I just never realized. Until now.

Something moves in the corner of my eye. I'm up and into my stance before I know what I'm doing and he's just looking at me. Payton's standing there, a shadowed figured in the doorway, a pike held rather loosely in his hand. The only sound is my breaths that come quickly and quietly. Anything could set me off.

"Do you like keeping me waiting, Payton?" I hiss.

His face is as stalwart as it has ever been. Always in control, always knows what he's doing. I'm the opposite. I've never known how he does the things he does and I never will.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he replies. How can he be relaxed, I don't understand. This is the finale. Do or die. No more fight or flight. There is only victory and death now. Relaxation isn't supposed to play a role now, but it runs freely on Payton's face.

He thinks he's going to win. He'd never say it aloud, but I can see it in his eyes. In the way he stands. He's already one foot out of this arena. His mind has practically already left. But I'm prepared to drag him back to this arena for eternity.

As much I don't want to feel anything, I don't want to die. I'm sorry Payton, I am truly sorry. I'm too far in to go back now, and the only way forward is through you.

"You know what," I say with a smile, "I wish I could just let you win. I wish I had the strength to put down my weapons and beg for a quick death."

His hand tightens its grip of his weapon. His jaw clenches as he studies me carefully.

"So why don't you?" Payton breathes lightly.

"I'm done following you around. I'm done with living in other people's shadows." I turn to the arena, surely laced with cameras in every corner. "You want blood? You want screams?" I can almost hear the screams from the Capitol.

My dead eyes return to Payton. "You heard them. Let's give them what they want."

I take off towards him, my arms tense, ready to swing my twin blades as soon I'm within striking range. In the few seconds it takes me to reach him though, Payton's set himself to parry, letting my blades hit off his pike before bringing it down and trying to drive it through my side.

Turning my body to dodge around it, I take a step forward, trying to take advantage of his position. Somehow though, Payton manages to parry me again and this time it was him trying to take advantage of my unbalance. However, I find the strength to push aside his pike just enough so it misses.

This is how it carries on for who knows how long. Back and forth between the two of us; attacking, dodging and parrying. Strangely, it's very similar to all of the sessions we had back in the training center in Two. Occasionally, someone would land a hit; nonetheless, it would only be a glancing blow which the other would blow off and continue fighting.

We're both beginning to tire, we both becoming slower and more sloppy. This will be decided not by who makes the smartest moves but who makes the first mistake.

The audience must be very surprised since it's their golden boy who makes the mistake.

During the fight, we had moved closer to the ring. Sweat and blood pouring off us as I go in for yet another slice. Payton takes a step back to try and get his footing. He ends up stepping on the ring itself and in a second, he's stumbling and falling onto the ground, the pike hitting the ground before he does.

The last thing Payton does is sit up before I move my blade across his throat, revealing a crimson spray that covers everything around it. His suit, the ground, my body. A few seconds later, he's back on the ground again and a few seconds after that, I've forced my blade through his torso and into his heart.

The cannon follows for the last time.

My hand slips off the blade in Payton, leaving it there. My other hand lets its blade go. I turn them around so I can see my palms. My palms which are once again coated in blood.

Twisting them in front of me just confirms it. Just confirms I've done it again.

Raising my right hand to my face, I drag my index finger down my face from my eye to my jaw. I lift my face so the darling audience can see it clearly. For my tears will no longer be clear and innocent. From this day on, they will reek of pain and suffering and death. Crimson droplets that will show the world who I truly am.

My own tears will forever scar me. Just as they should.

_"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games, Lorayn Alden of District Two!"_

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><p><strong>AN: Welcome to Eternal Penance: The Forty-First Hunger Games! Submission guidelines are on my profile. District-specific information is provided in addition to basic Panemian history in my verse. The Victors' blog and the tribute count are both on my profile, as well. **

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><p><strong>As many of you have come to realize, this is a collaboration between myself, Aspect of One, and The Lunar Lioness, who wrote this piece. <strong>

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><p><strong>From now until the 8th of February, submissions will be open. The second prologue and the blog will be posted on the eighth. I'd suggest sending your tributes in early as spots tend to get harder to grab as the deadline comes to an end. Have fun with your submissions! We're all very excited to see what you have in store for us.<strong>

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><p><strong>If you have any questions or concerns regarding anything at all, message me. Otherwise, we'd love to hear from you in a review! Until next time! <strong>


	2. Scars

_"A scar is a healing. After injury, a scar is what makes you whole." _

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><p><em>"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games, Lorayn Alden of District Two!"<em>

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><p><strong>Lorayn Alden, Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games<strong>

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><p>It still feels as though Payton's blood still stains me. Crimson stark on my suit, my skin, my weapon.<p>

Incessantly, shaking as I did so, I scratch at myself. The skin reddens.

I need to get him off me.

I must.

The pounding of my heart refuses to cease.

I am no Victor. I am a tribute. Forever and always, my heart, my mind, my blood all belong to this arena. I belong to this arena.

"-rayn. Lorayn!"

Something grabs my right hand, and I whip around ready to lash out. Minet grabs my other hand. She stares me down, expression tense, lips set into a grim line.

"Calm down," she says gently. Slight frustration tinges her tone at the same time. "Don't tear your skin apart before we reach District Two."

"It doesn't matter," I snap.

My voice sounds hoarse even to my ears.

Freeing my hands, I scoot away and whatever my mentor says next goes unheeded. Instead, I look around the train carriage. It looks the same as when I headed into the Capitol. Now, I go back. I wish things remained the same. My left hand drifts up to touch the bun my stylist has tied my hair into. I don't know if it suits me or not. I don't know how what I'm wearing looks like on me. Thinking of looking into mirrors and seeing my reflection scares me.

I don't want to know what's in my eyes.

What I will see.

My hands wring the hem of my blouse. The scars I've gotten in the arena remain with me. The Capitol glorifies it. The district will probably fawn over it as battle scars. Me? I bear the weight of the four lives I have taken.

It is burdensome.

It is a relief they remain with me.

I won't forget them. Not as long as they stay on me, mark me.

"Are you even listening to me?" Minet bites out.

"What?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

"Never mind," she sighs irritably. Apologizing would be proper. I only stare at her.

Silence stretches on between us and I turn to watch the passing greenery. I thought volunteering and winning the Hunger Games would be one of the best things to ever happen to me. I was so naïve. Killing people leaves a mark on you.

It can start to destroy you from the inside bit by bit.

The lifeless body of the young girl from Three flashes into mind. An urge to scream rises. And before I know it, I have my head clutched in my hands, chest heaving as I desperately try to breathe. Something presses in on me, leaves my chest tight. Anxiety claws away at me. I whimper.

Why won't the tears come?

Someone lowers me onto the floor. The contact with the ground brings me back to my senses a little.

"Take deep breaths," a masculine voice instructs. "Inhale, count to ten then exhale."

He repeats his words in a steady voice. I cling to it as if it were my only lifeline. Each breath leaves me a little more panicked though, and I end up clinging onto his arm. I do not know how long it takes but the sudden surge of panic finally ebbs out of me. Exhaustion washes over me. Collapsing in a heap against the sofa, surroundings finally coming into focus, hushed voices exchange words above me and I feel the presence of one of the speakers leave. A click echoes through the empty carriage. Grant suddenly appears in my vision.

"How are you feeling now?"

Oh, Minet left.

I guess even she got sick of me like the escort did.

"Better." My voice trembles.

His brows furrow together. Wordlessly, he helps me back onto the sofa then disappears somewhere. Silverware clinks behind me and he comes back with a cup of hot tea.

"Chamomile tea. It should calm you down more."

I accept it with a small smile. "Thank you."

For the next few minutes, the peace is blissful. I sip away at my tea feeling the tension leave me slowly. My hands grip the teacup tightly. Staring into the clear liquid, I am vaguely aware of Grant looking at me. His scrutiny leaves me shifty. The silence goes from tranquil to unbearable.

"You haven't really been cooperative," he remarks dryly at last.

I purse my he view me as the murderer of his younger brother or the Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games?

"I've been going with what the Capitol wants of me for a while now," I shoot back bitterly. "Can't I at least do what I want away from the cameras?"

"If by that, you mean wallowing in self-pity, then go ahead. But don't push away Minet who's only trying to help you. You'll face the cameras once you step out of this carriage. The people will be clamouring for your attention, your triumphant smile."

"That's all they ever care about."

"Yes."

He regards me with a cool expression. I killed his brother. Part of me expects him to show a bit more emotions. More anger, resentment. Not trying to…to help me.

"Volunteering was a mistake."

"Why?" He does not sound surprised.

The question unravels me.

"It isn't worth it! What's the point? I don't feel as if I gained anything. I only lost. This… If I knew it would turn out like this, I wouldn't have volunteered at all. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate everything."

"You don't gain anything from the Hunger Games," he grinds out. The controlled fury in his voice makes me flinch. Looking up at him, my eyes meeting his, part of me shrivels up under his glare. "You only get to keep your life. And what have you lost? You didn't lose your life! You didn't lose anyone! Maybe you only lost part of your humanity, fuck if I know. You killed my brother. So don't come and say you regret any of this."

Hands balled into fists, he stands and strides out. Something shatters in the other room and I cringe at the shrill scream of the escort followed by her lecturing.

I killed his brother.

I murdered to win.

I wish I died. Anything to avoid what I face now.

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><p>Even before the train pulls into the station, I can hear the roar of the crowd from outside. Anxiously wringing the hem of my blouse, I look to the two mentors for any form of comfort. Only Minet offers me a kindly smile. Grant stonily stares ahead. I suppose I deserve it.<p>

"Remember to smile, darling," the escort chirps.

The train slides to a halt. I take a deep breath. The door opens.

Whatever could have been said to herald my arrival goes over my head. For a moment, I stand in the doorway of the train carriage, lost, then I see myself on the screen enacted somewhere at the back, and I hurriedly plaster on a smile. The flashing lights once left me skittish but I have grown used to them in my time in the Capitol. A calm descends over me and I step off the train. Waving at the people, I let my smile blossom into a grin.

Glancing at the screen to see that I am acting my part well, I turn my gaze back to the crowd to search out my mother. It takes a while but I find her eventually somewhere in the middle. Our eyes meet and she smiles. Somehow, I think she understands even without me saying anything. Then a microphone is thrust in front of me. Swallowing, I prepare myself for the flurry of questions sure to come.

It is an effort not to wring the hem of my blouse.

A few hours later, I step back into my home.

"Mom," I call plaintively, desperation now laced into my voice. For all I've lost… I've not lost her. That much I can be grateful for.

"Lorayn." Her voice is warm as is her welcoming smile.

I rush into her open arms and embrace her tightly, her arms going around me, hand stroking my back.

"Welcome home," she says softly. Silent tears stream down her eyes and through my hair. "We missed you," she says lightheartedly, chuckling a little afterwards. "We missed you."

The words catch in my throat and I feel a lump from in my throat. Letting out a sob, I rest my chin on her shoulder and hug her even tighter. The tears start falling. It feels as though a weight has lifted off my back. I no longer have to hide behind a façade.

"I'm sorry," I cry out. "I'm so sorry. I- I-"

She steps back and I bury my face in my palms. Moments later, something soft presses into my left hand. I take the piece of tissue and wipe my tears away before blowing into it.

"You did what you had to do," is all she says before guiding me to the sofa. "Don't hold it in anymore, Lorayn. You're safe here."

It hurts. It hurts so much on the inside. Now that I no longer have to push all my emotions to a corner, they overwhelm me. I did not realize I bottled up so much. The grief is too much.

"I didn't expect it to be like that," I whisper.

Grief for what I have lost. Grief for what I have done.

"It's not honorable at all. It's just a desperate battle for survival."

I look up my mother through my tears. She places one hand on my back, silence accommodating, eyes prompting me to speak what I really, honestly think.

"I'm not a Victor."

I'm not a murderer too.

"I just wanted to live."

I'm just a girl who was terrified of death.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You did what you thought was needed so don't blame yourself over it, Lorayn." She shifts closer and hugs me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Take all the time you need to heal. I'll protect you as your mother."

"Mom," I whimper before burying my face in her shirt, hands clutching desperately onto it.

"I'm here."

And that's all I need to hear.

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><p><strong>AN: The blog link is on my profile. How about a shout-out to Aspect of One for a great prologue?  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Before I say anything else, we want to thank everyone for their submissions. We received over sixty submissions, and it was painstaking to select between them. A lot of submissions were excellent, but we had to turn them away in interest of our plot. We apologize deeply, and we thank you.<strong>

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><p><strong>Here are your tributes!<strong>

**District One, Luxury  
>Female: <strong>Adelaide Marchan  
><strong>Male: <strong>Cohen Veridie

**District Two, Masonry  
><strong>**Female: **Shaila Avani  
><strong>Male: <strong>Priston Thame

**District Three, Technology  
><strong>**Female: **Letricia Kode  
><strong>Male: <strong>Theon Carter

**District Four, Fishing  
><strong>**Female: **Aelia Paralian  
><strong>Male: <strong>Vice Chevallier

**District Five, Power  
><strong>**Female: **Metris Plaquerd  
><strong>Male: <strong>Bellamy Glover

**District Six, Transportation  
>Female: <strong>Scarlet Marlowe  
><strong>Male: <strong>Thorin Robiquet

**District Seven, Lumber  
><strong>**Female: **Maisyn Alvera  
><strong>Male: <strong>Halvard Asbjorn

**District Eight, Textiles  
><strong>**Female: **Tarryn Cheverly  
><strong>Male: <strong>Ren Ardaine

**District Nine, Wheat  
><strong>**Female: **Kiefer Callistus  
><strong>Male: <strong>Kristopher Runes

**District Ten, Livestock  
><strong>**Female: **Arleen Gavelle  
><strong>Male: <strong>Declan Whittacre

**District Eleven, Agriculture  
><strong>**Female: **Elora Valeyn  
><strong>Male: <strong>Abner Demerath

**District Twelve, Coal  
><strong>**Female: **Aline Carron  
><strong>Male: <strong>Duke Holloway

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><p><strong>Please check all the districts, as about 75% of all the outer district tributes were requested to be in Five or Eight, for some reason. Again, if your tribute isn't there, we apologize deeply.<strong>

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><p><strong>In terms of authors, the author of each tribute will be revealed at the end of the story. Basically, we're not telling you. For our own reasons, we've decided to keep that information unknown until the Games come to an end. If you'd like to know then, shoot any of us a PM.<strong>

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><p><strong><em>Which tributes are your early favorites?<em>**

**_Which tributes aren't?_**

**_Leave a chart of your opinions if you have the time!_**

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><p><strong>We'll see you soon! Thank you!<strong>


	3. Eternity

_"There's never a beginning to eternity."_

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><p><strong>Demetrius Saxon, Victor of the Thirty-Third Hunger Games<br>District Two**

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><p>Never did it sit right with me.<p>

Training, volunteering, killing. None of it brought me joy. None of it brought me satisfaction or fulfillment. In fact, it brought me nothing but a sense of remorse and emptiness that continues to ebb away at me to this day. However, the emptiness lessens whenever I remember why I did it. I didn't volunteer for myself, I volunteered for my family. Whatever way it turned out, we would all still be together. Either in the warm security of the Victor's Village or in the ever encompassing dark of death.

In all honesty, I didn't know which one I wanted. And I still don't.

Either side of me, I'm surrounding by Victors. From Armia and Cobble to Minet and Cynthia. From Elisia and Grant to me and Lorayn, we make up the greatest number of victors from a single District. Only one thing connects us. We all went into the Games to kill. Sure, it was for different reasons but it still connects us, and it needs to. This is the only slither of a bond we have to share. Without it, we would surely implode.

The mayor is still carrying on with his speech which could be summed up with the words 'Let's become the first District to have three victors in a row!'. I lean over to Ellisia, who sits to my right as she has already began to turn away to try and ignore me. Nevertheless, I carry on.

"I still don't like this," I say hurriedly.

"We know that, Demetrius, but you saying it isn't going to change anything," Ellisia replies. "You didn't like it when the brothers told us they wanted back-to-back victories, you didn't like it when we chose Lorayn because we thought she would be a good stepping stone for Payton and you don't like the fact that we're sending Grant and Lorayn to represent us in the Capitol."

I bite my tongue and let Ellisia face me unopposed. Something akin to barely contained anger contorts her face until the point when her lips move in a snarl.

"We've been over this time after time and we are not discussing this anymore," she grinds out.

Not now am I going to back down. It's only be a matter of minutes until I can't do anything else. I've got to try.

"I don't care about tradition. We can't let Grant take Lorayn, at least not without someone else there," I fire back, my own fury rising to the surface.

Ellisia stares me down for a moment before she takes in a deep breath. She turns back to face the front of the stage and lets it out again. An odd, wistful look enters her eyes as I acknowledge the applause that follows the end of the mayor's speech. Another deep breath and a soft voice appears.

"If he kills her, then so be it."

I bite down hard on my cheek, allowing the familiar taste of blood to flood my mouth. I need it to keep me grounded, otherwise… I don't even want to think about it.

My eyes are focused on the back of the escort whose name somehow manages to slip my mind every year as they reach into the girl's bowl, their hand quick in sniping up a piece of paper that lays on the top. Just as they've unfolded the pale yellow slip, a voice cuts out above the tension.

"I volunteer."

The eighteen year-old section parts like it does every year and out from it, steps forward a lithe girl wearing a dark blue dress embroidered with silver thread. A gift from the academy no doubt. As she makes her way up the stage, wearing a light smile, I acknowledge how much she looks like she could be from District One, what with her striking blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

Ms. Escort gives the girl a little bow and waits patiently for the return gesture before asking the question everyone in the Capitol is dying to know.

"Hello there, would you mind telling us your name?" She asks politely before handing the microphone over when the girl makes the motion with her hand. The blonde takes it, then twists around to face the crowd, her face all smiles and confidence.

"My name is Shalia Avani," her voice is just the same; all smiles and confidence but there's something else. A softness, a caring edge that makes her words all the more endearing. "I would just like to say it's an honour being chosen to represent District Two, and I hope, that between me and my District Partner, we can succeed in bringing home another Victor."

The crowd stays silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Cynthia nodding her approval at what I presumed to be her chosen trainee's words. Ever the patriot.

Ms. Escort continues to wear a smile as she makes her over to the boy's bowl. This time however, she's barely reached her hand into the bowl when another voice manages to interrupt her movement with a loud shout.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Suddenly, the boys in the eighteen year-old section are not so much moving apart as they are being forcefully pushed apart. Within a second, a boy emerges from the front with a huge grin on his face that stubbornly refuses to leave as he gallops up to the stage and onto the steps. On the stage, he's no less enthusiastic, ripping the microphone out of Ms. Escort's hands before she has the chance to do anything.

He stands on the edge of the stage, grinning for everyone to see.

"I'm Priston Thames," he starts off strongly and while he's taking a pause, he looks at Shalia who gives him a look of pure confusion.

"I'm Priston Thames and this year, District Two, I will be your victor!"

I doubt there is a single person in the whole of District Two who isn't utterly confused right now. Sure, there have been tributes who have been a bit too up for it, none of them had this air of childishness to them. None of them seemed this sincere. It's almost like Priston actually believed he was going to win for sure. Not out of confidence but out of naivety and ignorance. It was odd. Surely the Capitol is already tripping over itself over him.

A blanket of awkward tension falls over the district when it becomes clear Priston isn't going to hand back the microphone, instead keeping it loosely gripped in his fingers. Ms. Escort seems conflicted about what to do so I suppose it's good when Shalia steps towards her District Partner. Quickly, she reaches for the microphone and gently pries it from his hand. He offers no resistance, only a quizzical look as Shalia gives it back to Ms. Escort whose gratitude falls off in waves.

In the hand which once held the microphone, Shalia inserts her own and gives Priston's a little squeeze. I'm unsure whether it was to reassure herself or Priston or neither. Perhaps it was just a gesture of District loyalty to show the other tributes they are together. A united front that will sweep through the Games just like they have done before.

Ms. Escort pays her thanks and the crowd take that as their sign to leave. The two of them are still holding hands as the Peacekeepers move to escort them to the Justice Building. The other victors make their individual journeys down the steps, done for the Games for another year. I can't help but linger and look hopefully at Grant and Lorayn as they remain seated.

Grant has just murmured something about wanting to take Shalia when I feel something wrap around my wrist. I turn around and Ellisia's face fills my vision. After a few seconds, she makes a small motion with her head, one that means we need to go now. The urge to pull back my hand is there but I ignore it. Instead, I nod back and with that, Ellisia starts pulling me along by the slight grip she has on my wrist.

It would be easy to break it. Nevertheless, I no longer feel the need.

There's nothing left that I can do now. I just have to let it happen.

What will happen, happen. And if that is death, then so be it.

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><p><strong>Vixen Callaire, Victor of the Thirty-First Hunger Games<br>****District Six**

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><p>The sickly air seems heavier today.<p>

Seated on stage, I watch the people slowly enter the pens for the Reaping. Their drawn faces and tight-lipped expressions remind me of ten years ago. Except, ten years ago, I had entered the city square with the confidence that I would not be reaped. I wonder who else enters with that confidence. Looking at the crowd again, I catch a few smiles here and there. Not only did I get reaped, my brother was too.

The grief has dulled down somewhat but at times like this, it becomes as fresh as the day he sacrificed himself for me. It threatens to drown me today.

I look to my left and see our mayor talking to Argeliba. The former's face is rosy – a sign of health. Unlike Anya's who was saggy and yellow. She died a number of years ago to Morphling overdose. No one mourned. No one ever does. I doubt anyone was surprised too. I doubt anyone was aware of her death. Even with our new mayor, Morphling is still a problem.

"Dreary day isn't it," Argeliba quips as she comes over to me.

"Makes me think it's going to rain," I answer.

She throws her head back and laughs.

"Maybe today will be the day we can get a potential Victor."

"Oh, darling, everyone can be a potential Victor." She looks at me. "I didn't expect you to win after all."

Or Liam.

I avenged him but vengeance isn't as sweet as some people make it out to be. It does not bring people back to life after all. And in the Hunger Games, it only adds to one more thing that could break you.

Argeliba on the other hand, she is a true Victor. In the sense that she came out of the arena strong. Unbreakable. Me? I left the arena mourning. Not quite broken, but nearly there. The rips in the seams of my own sanity tear farther and farther with every waking second.

"The Reaping is starting." My fellow mentor states.

Tuning out the usual proceedings, I observe the possible tributes. An eerie silence has now descended over the square though not everyone looks on in rapt attention. Constantly seeing propaganda gets tiring after a while. It numbs people and turns them into cynics. About ten minutes later, Argeliba nudges me in the side. I stop spacing out and wince at the escort's shrill voice.

"Ladies first!" she cries out, her blue beehive-like hair bouncing up and down.

She prances over to the glass bowl and her left hand dives into it, searching for the slip of paper that will seal someone's fate. Gingerly taking it out, she prances back to the microphone and unfolds it.

"Scarlet Marlowe!"

There is some shifting in the twelve year old section. A freckled girl walks out, her manner composed. Her expression seems almost…bored. No, resigned. But she is not wailing or crying, and her eyes hold a threatening gaze to them. As if daring anyone to help her onto the stage. Back straight, she comes to stand beside the escort. She coldly regards the escort's offering hand, glaring at her until the escort retracts her arm and scuffles onto the next bowl.

"I like her," Argeliba muses. "Criers are never my favorite."

I twinge to myself. I had cried.

Scarlet's reaction is no pretense. She does not shake, her bottom lip does not quiver, and even from here, I can sense she is calm. Not even an inkling of fear or anxiety contorts her face. Only a dull expression smothers her.

"I like her, too."

Better than me who was a nervous wreck when I was called. Before breaking down completely when Liam's name was called out and no one volunteered.

The escort skips over to the male Reaping bowl and takes out the slip of paper without hesitation. At the microphone, she reads out the male tribute's name. The fourteen year old section parts for him. Clearly, he is well-known among them. He walks out looking as though he is desperately trying to hold himself together but that façade is falling apart. He is about halfway to the stage, eyes desperately searching out someone who will take the rep for him. A few moments pass, a few steps nearer to the stage, and someone calls out:

"I volunteer!"

A dark-haired guy moves out from the sixteen year old section. There seems to be a slight tension to his expression as he hurriedly moves up to the stage. The reaped boy very nearly collapses in relief.

"Ooh, a volunteer! What's your name?"

"Thorin. Thorin Robiquet."

The escort beams at him and spins to face the front. Thorin stands tall and true in front of the district that analyzes him curiously, befuddled of why he did what he did. But they find nothing, and he only stands complacently as the escort beams on and on. They don't know what to look for. Behind his back, Thorin fidgets his hands, scuffing his left wrist with his right palm.

Only now do the burn marks come to my attention. Thorin halts abruptly as the escort begins to speak and lets go of his wrist.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for District Six! Scarlet Marlowe and Thorin Robiquet."

I can practically feel the sighs of relief that it is not them. Or for the eighteen year olds, they have finally escaped the ominous loom of the Hunger Games.

The two turn and shake hands before the Peacekeepers come in and escort them to the Justice Building.

"Scarlet is mine," Argeliba announces as she watches them pass us.

Up close, Thorin is a little frazzled. But it does not seem directed towards volunteering as he keeps looking behind him at someone.

"I'll take Thorin then," I reply once they disappear behind the doors of the Justice Building.

* * *

><p><strong>Arly Paci, Victor of the Seventeenth Hunger Games<br>****District Nine**

* * *

><p>"Arly?"<p>

The first-aid kit falls to the ground in a clatter as I frantically try to stuff the gauze and antiseptic back into it. Gasping, I throw myself against the bathroom door. The lock broke a few weeks ago. I haven't found the will in me to get a locksmith to fix it.

"Arly, come out, please," Cassian pleads from behind the door.

It is pathetic.

My Hunger Games finished years ago but I have not changed one bit from when I came out. My family tells me to seek help but I refuse time and time again. Turning my back to the door, I slump against it and look at my bleeding wrist, at the multiple scars that line it. I bury my face in my hands. A failure.

I should be ashamed.

I am ashamed.

"Arly-"

"What are you doing here, Cassian?" I interrupt.

"I wanted to see you before the Reaping."

He frequently comes over just to talk to me. My parents died six years ago and my sister has long given up on me. Orson, District Nine's other Victor, does not bother with the two of us. We're weak in his eyes apparently. Needless to say, I do not bother talking to him. But he is kind at times. Times like today. We all share the same burden of being a Victor and needing to put up that glorious front after all.

I stare at my wrist.

But sometimes, I cannot quite take it anymore.

"Arly!"

The door moves behind me and instinctively, I move away. Cassian comes barreling in and wordlessly, he bends and starts taking the gauze and antiseptic to dab up the cuts. He never says anything about it but I know he worries.

"I'll be fine," I try to assure him.

"You always say that," his voice breaks.

Shaking my head, I try to answer him, but the words catch in my throat. My throat tightens and a lump forms in it. Bowing my head, the tears start escaping and I break down.

I was never meant to survive my Hunger Games.

"How long 'til the Reaping?" I ask through my tears, trying to find something to focus on.

"Two hours."

Two hours later, I am seated on the stage and staring out at the faceless crowd before me. The palpable tension in the air starts getting to me and I avert my gaze. The yellow stalks of grain and wheat wave gently in the breeze a distance away. I always liked going there before I was reaped. When I came back, the fields provided little comfort. The pale blue bedroom seemed better though it never did help.

"Arly, Cassian," Orson greets once he reaches us.

"Hello," I answer.

Smiling is too much of an effort right now. And he knows how I feel towards him.

"Hi," Cassian replies softly.

"Good luck with mentoring," he tells us.

"Thanks."

And the conversation ends there. We rarely talk much though a sense of camaraderie binds us at times like this. I relax against the back of my seat and patiently wait for the Reaping to start. Part of me dreads going to the Capitol again. It is not so much the thought of the cameras though that is one part of it, but I am reluctant to leave my home.

I have to do what has to be done though.

Fifteen minutes later and one screeching feedback from the microphone later, Amar walks up the stage. Our escort is as uppity as always and his hooked nose hardly helps with his snobbish disposition. It does not take long to arrive to the main event that everyone has been waiting for.

He wastes no time in taking out a slip of paper from the female bowl.

"Kiefer Callistus."

The pen for the seventeen year olds part, presenting a straight path to the aisle for her. No one seems particularly remorseful or sad over her being chosen.

And despite the circumstances, neither does she. The young woman walks out and I observe her carefully. Cassian and I have already decided beforehand that I will take the female. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line, hands balled up into fists, but her fierce expression does not waver as she walks up to the stage. It looks to me that she is trying to hold her tears in though.

But it's good.

Better than crying at the very least.

"Kristopher Runes."

And, like how everyone parted for Kiefer, the boys do the same for Kristopher. Except they give him a wider berth. He strolls out of his pen, lips tugged up into a smile. He is completely unaffected by the fact that he has been reaped for the Hunger Games.

Amar merely sniffs once Kristopher is beside him. Taking the microphone, it squeals again and I wince.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he drawls, "your tributes for District Nine!"

There is no raucous applause. Just a very light and polite one if only because of the cameras. Tossing his extravagantly long purple hair, Amar makes haste away from the two tributes.

"Good luck," Orson says as we stand. He off-handedly dusts his hands on his pants and cocks his head to the side. I try not to notice the superiority gleaming in his eyes.

"Thank you."

He inclines his head once more and walks away. Cassian and I share a look and I offer him a weak smile.

"I suppose this is the part where we go back," I say loosely, sighing as my hands subconsciously wrap around the uncouth strands of hair around my shoulders.

"Yeah," he murmurs, and I know without seeing that his eyes are trained on me worriedly. Every move has become a potential to turn the lost cause to a dead one. Every step I take is one step closer to my grave in his eyes. Any sudden movements, and I'll be gone for good.

I don't have the heart to tell him that I'm already gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Avella Ratier, Capitol Mentor<br>District Eleven**

* * *

><p>They called them unsalvageable.<p>

In truth, that's all anyone would see from the outside. Unruliness runs through this district like wildfire, and poverty is commonplace. Crime is more prevalent than the absence of it. Nothing in this district runs as it should. Far too many problems plague this district for anyone to fix, and anyone who has tried has failed, quickly and painfully. It's pitiful, but it's what's here.

It's a good thing I want nothing to do with that. I have no desire to interact with any of them, save the two tributes who will represent not only this district, but me.

_Us, _I correct internally. Winona coolly gazes into the crowd of children, looking through the rows of potential tributes with an analytical glare. One mentor hadn't been enough to uphold this mess, as the Capitol realized after the first suicide. I do my best to look at her and not through her, but these days, it's hard not to. With all the assistant mentors that come and go, it's hard not to see them as a temporary secretary rather than an equal.

But something tells me she'll be here for a while. Winona's eyes flicker from one impoverished child to another, and she does nothing but blandly sigh as she turns to me. "Which one would you like?" she says neutrally, as if she was regarding an animal, not a person. It's probably better to think like that, anyway.

"Whichever you don't," I answer. "Does it matter in the end? We're on the same team here. As soon as one wins, we're out of this dump."

Winona considers this for a moment and shrugs. "Do we mentor them together, then?"

"That's not a decision for us to make," I state, and Winona nods behind me. Good. The last mentor I tried to work with seemed to have disagreed with every word that left my mouth. At least Winona knows her place. "Let's see if they're compatible before anything else."

A familiar face wraps up his address to the people. District Eleven runs through escorts as it runs through mentors, but Natalia has been around for the past three years, one short of being around as long as I have. Eleven has had some close calls in the finales, but ultimately, we're still here.

Wallowing in the failure of these people.

It's hard not to blame them, but it's hard to do so, as well. They're born in this dirt and aren't given a chance to leave it. But neither was Twelve. Or Nine. Or Six. If you want to leave what you have, you have to get up yourself. You're not given a way out.

It always feels like the people before me are still waiting for someone to give them a helping hand. More than once families have come pleading and crying, begging for me to do everything in my power to save little Collin and poor, innocent Vera.

I can never decide if they disgust me or if I pity them.

Natalia approaches the microphone, humming in the silence that looms over us. Ever since restlessness began to stir, Peacekeepers have practically ruled the district entirely. Not a single person dares make a noise lest the hundreds of guns trained interspersed throughout the balconies locate them.

"We'll start with the girls," Natalia announces calmly, dipping her sky blue hands into the bowl. For a moment, her hands sift through the hundreds of slips before she selects one and returns to the microphone. She unfurls the folded paper without so much as blinking.

"Elora Valeyn!"

A willowy girl emerges from the seventeen-year old section, clad in a white, lace gown and a necklace of pearls around her neck. Unlike the others around her, Elora's skin is tan, but not dark, and her appearance is something out of District One.

Elora approaches the microphone with a winning smile and an airtight mask latched onto her. An outcry stops her in her tracks as an older woman – her mother, presumably – weeps. Hundreds of guns swerve to find the voice and lock in on her before a young man speaks sense into the woman.

The cameras had swerved alongside the guns towards the momentary disturbance, and in this moment, Elora's grin falters, and she hastily wipes her eyes against the sleeves of her dress. Not even Natalia besides her notices.

It's hard to see what you're not looking for.

"Do you have anything to say?" Natalia offers the microphone to Elora, who accepts it with an appreciative nod.

"I'm grateful for the opportunity to represent my district," Elora says calmly. The steadiness in her voice shocks even me. "It's no secret that we're not portrayed in the best light. I just have to disprove that."

Murmurs of disapproval flood the square, but the cocking of a gun silences that altogether.

Once absolute stillness has been restored in the square, Natalia approaches the opposite bowl with the same cheerfulness in her eyes. "Onto our boys," she chirps, once again humming as her hands seemingly argue with which slip will be chosen.

Natalia daintily grasps a slip from the top this time. "Abner Demerath!"

After the instinctive relief that betrays the faces of many, the heads in the district collectively turn in an attempt to snatch a look at whichever poor boy is destined to die now. Yet no one steps forward. A full twenty seconds of silence fill the square before a movement in the fourteen-year old section draws my attention.

A thin boy mouths to another boy of similar stature, and the latter trembles in response. Before either boy has a chance to do much of anything, the Peacekeepers decide it's high time to settle the issue for themselves, and they advance toward the two.

The first two apprehend the second boy, the shaking one. "By the reaping ordinance of Panem, you must accompany us." The boy remains still and silent, either unaware or unaccepting of the words being read to him. "Young man, I insist you follow us or we will make you."

It's only as the other Peacekeepers latch onto the first boy does the situation clear. They pull him farther and farther away from the first boy, and he struggles unintelligently. "Stop it!" he barks, limply swinging his arms and legs. "Don't hurt him, he can't hear you!"

By now, the Peacekeepers aren't listening, of course. The deaf boy has been thrown over of the Peacekeepers' shoulders like a rag doll and taken to the stage as such. At the stage, the Peacekeeper unceremoniously dumps him onto the wooden platform.

Elora rushes to his aid, pulling him up without once dropping her smile. Abner meets her eyes with a faint smile before rising with her assistance.

Natalia claps their backs. "Well, I suppose you've already shaken hands. My job here is done," she announces, promptly making her way offstage as the crowd also begins to disperse. Winona and I watch as an impenetrable block of Peacekeepers escort Abner and Elora to the Justice Building.

"I want the girl," I say as I watch Elora shake hands with the Head Peacekeeper before entering her respective room.

Winona grins. "I wanted the boy, so I guess that worked out well."

I raise an eyebrow in response. "Why would you want the handicap?"

"Some things surprise you, Avella. It's not always the strongest or the most able that come out on top," she reasons.

I don't bother arguing with her. So long as she knows her place, she can believe in whatever she wants to. The same goes for the tributes, I suppose. I don't care who they were or what they believe in. I don't care who they are at all.

My job isn't to know them. My job isn't to sympathize them.

My job is to make them win. No more, and no less.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is the first of three reapings, four districts per reaping. This way, we can breeze through them while still creating an idea of each tribute. A happy median.**

* * *

><p><strong>Not much to say this time. The three of us would collectively love it if you reviewed (they're fun to read). Reviews don't have to be massive, but it's nice to see you care enough to leave a word or two. As Light Up The Sky is coming to a close, expect faster update speeds. <strong>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Which of these eight tributes stood out the most to you?<em>**

* * *

><p><strong>See you soon!<strong>


	4. Choice

_"It's choice - not chance - that determines your destiny." _

* * *

><p><strong>Navaeh Astley, Victor of the Thirty-Sixth Hunger Games<br>****District One**

* * *

><p>The mentors are in a good mood.<p>

It is just an hour before the Reaping and we're having a sort of gathering, if you will. Chosen to be mentor this year for our female Career, I smile proudly at the photo of our chosen volunteer. Adelaide Marchal. She has been a rising star ever since she joined the Academy and cemented her position as the top trainee after several years.

But as much as I would like to say she is more than equipped with the skills and knowledge to win, I know how unpredictable the Games can be. No one expected me, someone who did close to nothing, to win after all. There were others to do the work for me. I had no reason to lift a finger.

"Navaeh."

I look up to see cold eyes and a thin pair of icy lips. Pasiphae.

She is different from me. She killed more than half the tributes in her Hunger Games. In spite of our differences though, we remain on good terms. I smile at her and look at the rest who are drinking. Non-alcoholic of course. As the Victors of District One, we do have a reputation to uphold on a day as important as this.

"Good luck on mentoring," she says as she sits beside me.

"Thank you! But I'm sure Adelaide won't disappoint."

We smile at each other. Looking behind her, I catch sight of Silicus who is resting on a chair. The oldest of us, he still looks younger than his actual age. He catches me looking and smiles. I return it. Favoritism is frowned upon in this district, but Silicus has always been the least grating victor. Compared to the rest, he is nurturing. Almost as though like a kindly grandfather.

Standing up, I decide to head over and mingle with the rest. An hour left before I have to get serious and get ready for my second mentorship. The first Career I mentored died and came in fifth. Though I try to comfort myself at times that her placement is not all that awful, the guilt that I could have tried harder still eats away at me. The what ifs swallow me up.

But I have a new tribute to mentor now.

I have to focus on her.

An hour later, I find myself seated on stage. The escort's theatrics have worn itself out on the second time. I pretend to pay attention. The atmosphere is alight with an excited buzz. We approach the Hunger Games with open arms for the most part. With the Career culture, except for the chosen two, none of us have to fear entering the arena.

Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if we did not have this concept of training for the Hunger Games. Most likely. We would be like the outer districts.

The escort skips over to the female Reaping bowl and plucks out the slip of paper. She does not even bother to heighten the tension knowing that there will be a volunteer. Reading out the name, the Reaped tribute shuffles forward. And true enough, a few moments later, Adelaide's voice rings out.

"I volunteer!"

She walks up to the stage perfectly poised, lips curved into a slight smile. Pride swells up in me.

"What's your name, darling?" the escort asks.

"Adelaide Marchal."

"That's a really pretty name!"

Considered a genius by the Academy's standards, she is expected to go far. I grip the hem of my blouse nervously. I hope I can deliver. It would be even better if she emerges as Victor. Looking over at Silicus, I wonder how he took his first tribute's death. I bite on my lower lip and look at the escort who has already taken the slip of paper with a male's name written on it. She calls it out and Cohen volunteers.

He walks up to the stage with a smile verging on a grin.

"Cohen Veridie," he announces.

The two district partners shake hands. Their smiles are genuine and the mood between them actually does come off as truly comfortable.

"Your tributes for the Forty-First Hunger Games, District One!" The escort declares.

The crowd bursts into rapturous applause and Cohen eagerly waves at them. Adelaide waves as well, but the cheerful, infectious energy of Cohen isn't to be seen in Adelaide. She's not a corpse, but she's not nearly as vivacious. Not nearly as riveting. Not nearly as eye-catching.

I will myself to think that a good thing.

The Peacekeepers escort them to the inside of the Justice Building and the crowd starts dispersing.

Standing up, I head over to Silicus and offer my hand to him.

"I look forward to working with you."

"Likewise." He chuckles and shakes my hand. "You don't have to be so formal."

"Nothing _has_ to happen," I respond, dusting off the ruffles of my dress. "But they do. I'd like to be in control of what has to happen to me."

* * *

><p><strong>Celesto Rollins, Victor of the Twenty-Ninth Hunger Games<br>District Three**

* * *

><p>They don't clap this year.<p>

Not that I'm complaining, but it's become tradition for me to ignore the muted applause of the people as I take my seat on the podium every year. Out of respect, gratitude, pity, or reverence, I never figured out, but it's gone now. The square doesn't acknowledge my presence with sound.

But there is a sight to see. Beady eyes of every color are locked onto me as I laxly sit on my designated chair on the podium. Whatever purposed them to thank me before has most definitely vanquished now. Many of their eyes adorn little but indifference. A select few still meet my eyes with a glint of kindness in their hearts.

And the others. The others regard me with a coldness that I suppose I've earned. They accuse me of doing what I've done, and I make no move to denounce that. There's no point in putting off what's bound to punish me anyway.

They accuse me of stealing their children away. Their anger is misplaced, but they couldn't care less. Frankly, I couldn't, either. And no matter how skewed their logic is won't affect the silent hatred that the eyes of parents speak here and now.

I brush off the glares as the ceremony begins. Better they blame me than someone who will do more than ignore their hatred. At least this way, no additional punishment will be thrown upon us. The Games are more than enough to ruin lives and tear a community apart.

Anything else will only tear more and more into nothing but shreds. Eleven is a prime example. Not even family bonds can always overwhelm the need to stay alive. The need to eat. The need to breathe. The need to live. Everything is up in the air when survival is part of the game.

The mayor stares at me peculiarly when I laugh abruptly during the escort's speech. Sounds a lot like another game.

Said escort shrills into the microphone as her electrifying presentation finally comes to a close. The monitors surrounding the square blacken quickly around us all, and the escort applauds. To my genuine surprise, she's not the only one clapping. Not nearly the only one. People and reapable teenagers alike clap alongside her. Dully, but nevertheless, they clap.

I frown as the clapping ends and the escort waltzes over to the girls' bowl, squealing all the way. When did Three become a lapdog?

"My ladies out there will be first!" she exclaims. She wastes no time in delaying the process, hurriedly snatching up the top slip and returning to centre-stage. "Letricia Kode!"

Withholding the roll of the eyes that begs to be shown, I watch as Letricia breaks into sobs. Her age's section awkwardly moves to avoid her path, but not one person reaches out to comfort the weeping girl. No one acknowledges it. Several have to look away to keep themselves at arm's length, but after all is said and done, Letricia has no one supporting her.

At least some things haven't changed.

Letricia rubs her red summer dress against her eye, leaving a tear stain on the dampened fabric. "Don't cry, dearest, we're on a time frame here," the escort whispers away from the microphone, gently guiding Letricia from behind. She stumbles as she makes her way to the stage.

The escort clears her throat into the microphone, bathing in the attention of the district once more. "Letricia, do you have anything to say?"

The sniveling girl begins to shake her head, but the escort thrusts the microphone to her before she can properly answer. "I… I didn't do anything." She averts her eyes, swallowing a sob weakly in her throat. "Why me? I didn't do anything," she whispers, hiccupping as the last of her tears slips off her cheek.

Unlike me, the escort makes no attempt of masking her distaste. "I'm sure you didn't," she mumbles lowly before making her way over to the boys' bowl.

"Theon Carter!"

Once again, not a single soul makes an attempt of helping the boy up the stage, but it's not needed this time. Theon raises an eyebrow as his name is called, but otherwise, isn't outwardly affected. After a moment's inquiry, the boy shrugs and paves his own path to the stage, ignoring the pointed glares he gets as he shoves a passerby or two on the way.

Once he's there, he grabs the microphone before the escort offers it to him. Based on her relieved smile, it doesn't really look like she cares all that much. "I just want to say this: don't miss me too much. I'll be back soon."

The escort doesn't hesitate to take her microphone back. "Cocky, are we now?"

"It's not cocky if you have something to back it up," reasons Theon as he takes his respective spot onstage. The woman motions for the two of them to shake hands, and Theon makes no delay in brusquely grasping Letricia's hand and tugging it before departing. Letricia shrinks away to his coldness.

I sigh. There goes any chance of them being allies.

It's none of my business, truly, but it's always a bit easier to work with two of them if they're just that – two, and not two ones. But just from watching them walk towards the Justice Building – from Theon's swagger to Letricia's shyness – it's blatantly obvious that they'll be working separately.

Yet their differences don't bother me. It'll cause issues for sure, but the more different they are, the better their chances. If both of them were brazen and impulsive, I'd have two dead corpses to come home with. If both were hesitant and meek, the same would be true.

This way, one lives and one dies.

Now just the matter of which.

* * *

><p><strong>Quinn Desential, Victor of the Twenty-First Hunger Games<br>District Eight**

* * *

><p>"Quinn, are you ready yet?" Faulkner's voices bares touches of worry around it's edges. It's almost like he thinks we won't get to the Reaping on time. Every year's the same, hurry up or they're going to start without us.<p>

I understand why he does it, though. Despite how much he doesn't want to admit, a part of Faulkner will always be that small thirteen year old boy who was destined to be a bloodbath, another blank space on the list of those lost to the Games' clutches. Sure, he proved them wrong in the end. Even killed his district partner, Vera, who had been chosen as the one to bare all of the District's hope for another victor. The only person who believed that Faulkner would come out alive was him.

To this day, I'm grateful that it turned out that was all he needed.

"I'll be there in a minute Faulkner so please, for pity's sake, stop asking," I reply, sounding oddly like a mother scolding their children, fixing my hair so it's reasonably presentable. Unlike Polio, who I imagine is about two bottles deep into the alcohol haze at this point, I need to make sure I look strong. Not as some front, but to show that the Games didn't break me like they had so many others.

The face of Jon Kohl surfaces in my mind although I quickly swat it away. I need to focus on the now. In a couple of hours, I will be on another train back to the Capitol with all new tributes to mentor. Tributes, who if everything goes right, will be the ones telling me to hurry up next year.

Standing up from the seat at my vanity, I stroll over to the door and pull it open to reveal Faulkner in the hallway of my home. He wastes no time in racing down the stairs because he must still need to persuade the bottle out of Polio's hand. Soon enough, the familiar swearing that makes up most of Polio's vocabulary begins to bounce off the walls as I make my way down to join them.

"Polio, just give me the bottle. We need to leave now," Faulkner asks, trying to be polite as he can be under the circumstances.

Polio responds with something along the lines of "Fuck you." before taking another large swig.

The youngest victor made a move to try again but stopped when I move past him. Within a few strides, I'm beside Polio, tearing the bottle out of his hand. He goes to swear at me, to call me a bitch or a whore or some other word I've heard a thousand other times when he was drunk. I cut him off.

"This is all we ask you to do. Go to the Reaping, sit for ten minutes and then go back to the village so you can drink away what you've done. I'm sure Faulkner would love a year off from journeying to the Capitol, if you would rather not."

Twenty minutes later, we're all sitting together on the stage as Mayor Pollock finishes her speech. The sound of the forced applause echoes throughout the area, it managing to make the uncomfortable air even more unbearable.

Our escort, Larissa, either doesn't notice or doesn't care as she walks up to the girl's bowl, confidently and quickly. She never likes to waste time. She told me one year she despises coming here year after year. Safe to say, she wasn't happy when I told her that she better get used to it.

Her hand rummages around in the bowl for a few seconds before picking a slip out from the center. Needless to say, Larissa opens it with haste.

"Tarryn Cheverly."

A few seconds pass and the peacekeepers being to look at each other, nevertheless, a girl who must be Tarryn emerges from the sixteen year old section. She keeps her head down as she stalks up to the stage, her hands remaining stubbornly tightened into fists for the entire time. Even when Tarryn has taken her place on the stage and raised her head, her fists remain clenched. Her eyes may be teary, however, they are not falling and they are not important right now.

Those fists show that she has fight inside of her. Me and Faulkner didn't have much to our names when we were tributes. One of the few things we did have was fight and look where that has brought us.

Larissa blinks impassively at Tarryn. Then she moves to the boy's bowl and repeats practically the exact same thing she done for the girl's bowl. The slip is in her hand before you could blink and it is opened before your eyes are opened.

"Ren Ardaine."

This time, the chosen's section doesn't wait for the tribute to make its way as it, it being the seventeen year old section, parts almost immediately, revealing a dark haired boy. I wonder for a moment if he is going to be one of those ones that freezes and doesn't react to anything. He proves me wrong though as he puts on this odd sly grin that makes it seem like he planned this. Ren doesn't remove it by the time he reaches the stage. He stands next to Tarryn as Larissa unethusanticly announces the ending of yet another reaping.

Polio leaves without saying a word, only a barely audible mumble that not even I could understand. I turn back to the two tributes who are about to be taken off to the Justice Building when Ren leans down to Tarryn's ear. Whatever he whispered to her, it didn't take long. That grin is back on his face when his head surfaces, he even gives a Tarryn a wink which leaves her oddly perplexed.

"Who do you want?" Faulkner questions. I think about it for a moment.

"I'll take Ren," I answer. "It'll be easier for you to handle Tarryn. She's got determination, and you work well with determination."

Faulkner says nothing in response. We walk together to the Justice Building in silence, just like we had done every year since he had won.

No one could have predicted that two thirteen year olds would win, never mind from the same District. That is what we do though. We beat the odds in order to gain victory, and we came out better for it.

All you need is determination to succeed in the Games. If you don't possess that, you are destined to become yet another blank space.

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><p><strong>Corbin Pentier, Victor of the Thirty-Fifth Hunger Games<br>District Twelve**

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><p>"This'll be the year."<p>

Holland turns to me with glossed over eyes. Her lips quirk disapprovingly as she readjusts her body in her chair. "It could be," she deadpans, picking at her nails dully. "It always _could _be."

"But it _will _be," I urge, and Holland only sighs to herself. "If we don't have any hope for them, who can we expect the tributes to have hope?"

"Their lives are on the line," she retorts, no longer monotone in voice. Her expression flashes with agitation as she continues. "If they can't hold out hope for themselves, they don't deserve to make it out of the arena in the first place."

Not one to be beaten, I turn to face Holland directly. "You're saying that you never had a moment of weakness in the arena, in the Capitol – at the Reaping. Not one stroke of helplessness, not one second of fear?"

"It's not about me anymore. Nor is it about you." She hesitates, before adding, "The Games change. There is no sort of tribute that does consistently better. Daring helps you one year. Intelligent helps you another."

"And this year, it might be cowardice that leads a tribute from Twelve to victory," I reply smugly.

"Unlikely."

"Unlikely," I agree, "but very much possible."

She runs a wrinkly hand through her graying hair. Despite being younger than mom, Holland could pass as my grandma. The Victor Effect, they call it. "Anything is fair game for the Games. Just because something is possible doesn't mean it's probable. They could make the arena a cake and no one would bat an eye.

"If you're saying that the arena will be a cake before Twelve wins again, I think we should consider putting you in an asylum."

Holland glares, but her eyes twinkle in amusement. She'd never say it aloud, but she's glad I'm here. For one, she's finally not alone in this mentoring business, and two… I think she's happy that she finally brought someone home. Thirty or so years passed, and she had nothing to show for it. And now, I'm here and suddenly, her work isn't for naught anymore.

The thought makes me shudder. Will I have to wait thirty years for my work to pay off?

"You're missing the point," she mutters, throwing a sloppy shove my direction.

"You're not providing a point."

She opens her mouth to spit back, but both of our attentions are stolen away from our banter to the stage as the escort bids hello to the district. Niko Vallant is just the newest face for Twelve, surely to be replaced within the next year or so. Twelve is pit-stop for the escorts to stop by at and move on from as their career starts.

It shouldn't bother me, but it does.

I do my best to contain the annoyance as the mayor finishes his speech and hands the microphone to the twat. "Thank you, Ms. Latell," the purplish man says, clasping hands with the now elderly mayor of Twelve as he accepts the microphone from her hands. He pauses until the low rumble of the crowd dies down entirely before he speaks. "District Twelve, it is an honor to serve you," he proclaims, bowing, then grinning like a lunatic.

"I'm not going to waste your time," he begins, "but this is no waste. All the way from the Capitol, we have a presentation from our President herself!"

A collective sigh is breathed from the crowd as the overly dramatized production stirs on the screens around the square. The propaganda is laced with sound effects that jolt the dozing people from their naps, but otherwise, it doesn't serve much of a purpose. Even Niko fights a yawn halfway through.

Niko hastily moves for the microphone as soon as the presentation dies down. "Wasn't that riveting?" A stray voice responds with a resounding 'No', but the Peacekeepers are too busy laughing to be bothered to deal with the situation. Niko purses his lips.

"Our ladies, first!"

He slips his hand into the girls' bowl and allows his hand to swim around in the countless names before finally selecting the fated tribute. He clears his throat.

"Aline Carron!"

The front section of the girls open up to reveal a thin girl with dark brown hair, tied into a bun behind her head. She stumbles at first, and her entire body is visibly shaking, but by the time she's hit the stage, there's more control. She's not completely reined in the tremor in her hands, but Aline hasn't let one tear slip off her face. Not once does she cry out, not even as the Peacekeepers usher her forcefully to the stage once they decide she's not moving fast enough.

Not yet.

"Do you have anything to say, Aline?"

Aline's lips quirk into an ugly frown before she straightens it out entirely. "Not particularly."

I raise an eyebrow. "They always say something. Bitter, happy, even indifferent – everyone has something to say."

The corner of Holland's lip twitches upward. "Maybe she has the good sense to not say it."

"The Capitol won't like her. Or remember her."

Holland smiles now, not bothering to suppress it like she usually does. "But the Gamemakers will."

Niko wastes no time in announcing the obvious. His hand plays up the same idea as it did with the girls; he takes his good old time sifting through names, deciding which unlucky boy will have the great fortune of being selected to die.

A slip from the very bottom appeases him. "Duke Holloway!"

Once again, the eighteen-year old section shuffles to the sides of the pen as Duke squirms out. The silence that ruled the square is broken as a woman from the outskirts screams out. This time, Peacekeepers do move to apprehend her, but they don't do any physical damage to her. A female Peacekeeper simply collects her in her arms and walks off.

But Duke has no such fear coming from him. Act or not, Duke hops up to the stage with a steady grin and a steadier bounce in his step. Niko picks up on his jubilance. "Duke, my man, how's it hanging?"

Duke shrugs, still clinging to the grin that's plastered onto his face. "It's alright. Nothing too big, I guess."

Niko plays up their banter for what it's worth before drawing it to a close. "District Twelve, your tributes, Aline Carron and Duke Holloway!"

He motions for them to shake hands, and Duke pistons his hand upwards to Aline. The latter considers his hand with a cold glare before shaking it briefly and stalking off to her awaiting pack of Peacekeepers.

"I want the girl," Holland murmurs, watching the two of them make their way to their final goodbyes.

"Who said you get to pick first?"

She sneers at me. "Please, if it weren't for me, you'd be a corpse. I get first pick. Always."

"That hardly seems fair," I mutter playfully, slapping on a pout for good measure.

Holland laughs. "Fair? You of all people should know better."

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><p><strong>AN: Second batch of tributes has come and gone. Last batch is coming up soon. After that, tribute POVs will start with the Train Rides.**

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><p><strong>We'd love to hear from you. Reviews don't have to be massive; we just want to know you're there. A simple note of approval or disapproval would be great.<strong>

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><p><em><strong>Which tributes were your favorite? Least favorite?<strong>_

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><p><strong>See you soon!<strong>


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